Practice
by vicodin-vixens
Summary: A blast from the past! Unearthed from the Vicodin Vixens' vault. Set during s2, rampant fluff, first kiss, one-shot. Warning: Slash. We own nothing but quarters for jukeboxes that don't exist anymore and a collection of swizzle sticks.


The bar was noisy and crowded as Wilson elbowed his way to the back table where House was waiting. Smoke hung in the darkness like a fog. Wilson saw, with some relief, that House had already ordered drinks. He sat, eating peanuts and feigning interest in the baseball game playing on the overhead televisions.

"Thought you were bringing wifey-poo?" House said by way of greeting.

Wearily, Wilson shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie. "Nice to see you, too, House."

"Yeah, yeah," his friend grumbled, then repeated, "So? Where is she?"

Wilson carefully rolled up his shirtsleeves, taking pains to avoid meeting the penetrating blue-eyed stare of the man sitting across from him. When House's palm slapped the table in front of him, Wilson was forced to look up, and he noted with a vague dislike, the expression of triumph on House's face.

His lips twisted into a wry smile. "Hah! She's leaving you. Told you so. What are you doing, anyway? Starting a collection?"

"Of ex-wives? Yes, if you must know," Wilson said, "After five you get a commemorative plate." He wrapped his hands around his drink, feeling cool condensation. "You're just jealous," he muttered.

"Yes, that's it. I envy the romance of divorce court," House replied, rolling his eyes. "What was it this time? Dirty socks on the floor? She found your stash of German porn? I know! She was doing the nasty with Fred the plumber, wasn't she? Was he 'unclogging her drain'?"

Wilson drank deeply and returned House's expectant stare.

"If you really must know..."

"And I must."

"She thinks I'm spending more time with you than with her." Wilson admitted, running a hand through disheveled brown hair.

House flicked a peanut across the table, his brows drawn together in concentration, "Well, yeah, of course you are. But what's that got to do with..."

He trailed off, and Wilson watched with something akin to amusement as realization finally hit.

"Ohh...she thinks that we..." he motioned his index finger towards Wilson, then back to himself, "That you and I..."

Wilson tried not to smile as he nodded slowly.

"As if you're good enough for me."

Wilson smirked. "Exactly what I said. Strangely, she didn't believe me, " he said as he drained his drink. "And to add insult to injury, apparently I'm a lousy kisser."

House laughed and tipped his glass towards his friend, "_That_ I do believe. I've seen you kiss. You look like you want to eat the lower half of her face."

Wilson felt the heat of embarrassment creep up to flush his cheeks. "I do not!" he cried indignantly, "I have a proven technique."

"Really?" House said, one eyebrow raised in challenge. "Let's see. Put your mouth where your money is."

A momentary look of confusion crossed Wilson's face, but then his eyes narrowed as he accepted House's dare.

"Excuse me," he said, as his fingers closed over the nearest waitress' wrist. "Emily. Pretty name." He tried to ignore the eye-rolling coming from House's direction. "Would you help us settle a bet?"

Wilson startled as he felt a warm hand upon his. A warm _masculine_ hand. _House's _hand.

"Not her, you idiot," he growled, "Of course she's going to side with you. She'll do anything for a tip, won't you?"

Emily the waitress gave a slight smile and a shrug, then walked away, her blonde hair shining even in the murky darkness.

"You need someone impartial."

Wilson's eyes surveyed the crowd. "There's a cute redhead by the pool table," he suggested.

"Tell me you're not really this clueless?" House mumbled and Wilson looked at him, surprised.

"_Me_. Try _me_," House said in exasperation and Wilson laughed. He stopped laughing when he realized House hadn't joined in.

"You're serious?" he asked, and licked his lips nervously.

House leaned closer, his eyes flashing. "How can I possibly judge whether you're a lousy kisser if I'm not on the receiving end?" He sat back and smirked. "What's wrong, Wilson? Afraid you'll fall in love?" he mocked.

"Of course not!" Wilson sputtered. His jaw worked, but no more words came.

"Pucker up, Buttercup," House ordered, "Give me your best."

"This can't be happening." Wilson whispered as he made his way to the other side of the table.

And though he desperately wanted to see the expression on House's face while he was being kissed, Wilson clamped his eyes shut tightly.

Mere inches away from House's face, Wilson could smell him - leather, whiskey and hospital soap. It was strangely appealing.

With his hands clenched firmly at his sides, Wilson tentatively pressed his lips against House's, taking in firmness and angles, where he was used to softness and curves.

When House didn't immediately draw back, Wilson allowed his tongue to trace the fullness of House's lower lip, then slide along the seam of his closed lips. Wilson prodded House's mouth open gently and without quite realizing it, Wilson had placed a hand on either side of House's face.

The stubble on his cheeks scraped against Wilson's open palms as he tilted his friend's head back to gain deeper access to his mouth.

Emboldened by House's seeming acquiescence, Wilson traced a stripe across teeth and the inside of a cheek before finding House's tongue. There was no denying the low moan that came directly from House's throat, just as there was no denying the fact that he was kissing Wilson back.

Their tongues collided and warred with each other for a moment before finding their rhythm. House's hands clutched the back of Wilson's shirt and pulled him back slightly, resting his forehead against Wilson's as they regained their breath.

House was the first to break away, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "You'll need practice."


End file.
